A Day in the Life
by Luciddreamer326
Summary: The seven deadly sins in 24 hours.
1. Greed

_**Fic: A Day in the Life**_

**Title: **A Day in the Life

**Rating:** Strong T or Mild M. Whatever floats your boat.

**Spoilers:** General 1-5 warning. No specifics though.  
**Prompt:** The seven deadly sins in 24 hours

9:00 a.m. - **Greed**

She saw something like this once on the Discovery Channel. Only it involved female cows and a two foot tool, not her gloved hand reaching into the inner depths of the human body.

It's days like today that make her think twice about doing rounds in the clinic as opposed to sitting behind a desk, signing paperwork or doing budget reports. She stares at the ceiling, the terrible picture of a tree on the wall that she knows she couldn't have picked out, the canisters of medical supplies on the counter. Anything but the ass turned skyward in her direction. She relies solely on feeling, imagination.

The door swings open just as she pulls the object from the orifice and heaves out a heavy sigh. The metallic clink of the tray sounds as she tosses the object aside and strips her gloves from her fingers.

"Good God," the voice behind her sounds.

She doesn't turn around, instead walking to the trashcan and pressing the button with the point of her heel and disposing of the latex. Her patient remains upended, arms splayed to the side of the exam table, face pressed into the thin paper covering.

"You can pull up your pants now, Mr. Delvecchio," she sighs and heads toward the man standing in the doorway.

His blue eyes shine but his face remains void of all emotion. She knows what is coming and doesn't even offer a goodbye to her patient before she breezes through the doorway and pulls the knob toward her body.

"What the hell was that?" he asks, limping behind her at a slower pace.

She doesn't wait for him to catch up as she arrives at the nurse's station and picks up another file.

"House, we're understaffed. I don't have time pique your curiosity. There's a lot to be done."

"Oh, come on. And miss the chance to know what kind of X-files, alien probing sex scenario that guy had going on? You know, your story could be in the running for 'oddest object pulled from a body cavity' if you are willing to share your tale."

"It's not a Hans-Christian Anderson story. More like something from Nightmare on Elm Street.

She withdraws another file from the pile, briefly glancing at the name and room number before heading off in that direction. He follows behind her and continues on with the conversation she has no desire to finish.

"I always try to make the best of those scenarios. Just think of it like digging for the surprise in a Cracker Jack box," he offers.

She stops at the exam room door and bumps into him as she turns around. He's closer than she would like him to be. Too close in fact. She can see the minuscule wrinkles in his shirt, the age lines around his eyes, the stubble on his cheeks. His cologne fills her nostrils and she tries not to think about any of it because it's too damn early for any of this.

"You're disgusting," she frowns.

She turns around and enters the room, seeing the middle aged man with brown wavy hair slumped forward, his hands rubbing his temples violently. He quickly glances up and she can see the dark circles under his eyes and tears streaming down his face.

"I've been having terrible, crippling headaches. My hands feel like they are on fire and my feet feel like I am walking on coals. I haven't had a decent nights sleep in weeks because I am constantly in pain," he blurts out before she can even offer her customary greeting.

"Mr. Winterman…"

Suddenly, the man bursts out into laughter. It startles her and she knows that House has to be enjoying this. He will probably mock her later for being thrown for a loop but she feels him sidle up beside her and bend overly slightly to look at the man better.

She isn't sure why she does the same, maybe vainly hoping that whatever House is seeing or smelling or hearing, she will be able to from the position they are in. The man's laughter rings through the room and then becomes peppered with rough coughing. He kicks a medical tray out of the way and she jumps back. House does not budge.

"I want this case," he says, staring at the man as if he has him magnified under a microscope.

She hands him the file without an argument of infringing on her case. The day is still early and she isn't sure she wants House following behind her in the clinic, a place she isn't used to seeing him anyway. It's better to send him on his way and let him begin to examine the pieces of the puzzles.

"Send this guy to room 326," he orders her, as if he has the authority to tell her what to do.

It should be the other way around really, but she nods and they both walk out of the room together. He leaves her side without another word and walks down the hall. As she stands outside the room, as strong sense of possession washes over her. He is her limping genius with a cane and she is glad that he is at her hospital and no other.

She protects him and puts up with his wild tangents because, in some odd way, she feels like he belongs to her. For a brief moment, the image of a lioness enters her head and she imagines it snarling at passers-by as they casually glance at the cubs tucked under its flanks. As she makes her way back to the nurse's station, she wonders how many more she will have to bare her teeth to.


	2. Envy

A/N: Quick note-Yes, last chapter was meant to focus on Cuddy's greed to keep House at her hospital. It was kind of subtle I suppose, so I just wanted to clear that up.

-

10:13 a.m.- **Envy**

"Could be Marfan's Syndrome," Taub offers.

"The guy's 5'6" and doesn't have any enlarged limb features. If he had Marfan's, we'd notice the lack of connective tissue somehow," Foreman counters.

"Ehler's Danlos?" Thirteen questions.

"Again, we'd notice the connective tissue issues and I didn't see him being able to bend like a contortionist," Foreman disagrees.

The war room sits silent and she thinks she can hear each of their breathing. House says nothing, instead keeping his glare fixed on her sitting beside the whiteboard. To avoid his gaze, she turns her attention away from him and looks at the marker scribbles beside her:

-_Uncontrolled Emotions_

_-Neuropathy_

_-Headaches_

_  
-Insomnia_

"House?" Foreman tries in an attempt to get his attention.

"Since when did the Dean of Medicine decide to start sitting in on differentials?" House says snottily, ignoring Forman.

"Probably around the time that doctors I normally have to beg to do clinic duty started following me around like a lost puppy dog and stealing my cases," she shoots back.

Not that it matters that he took her case. In fact, she hadn't seen a lot come across her desk lately that would interest him. It almost felt like picking out the right art project for a gifted and talented school child who already could paint a beautiful mural.

"I was bored," he growls.

"Well, now I am. Get back to the patient," she grumbles.

"Go and get me a pretty picture of the heart. If there are abnormalities in the aorta or valves, we have a winner," he commands while looking at her and stands, twirling his cane between his fingers. "And not a very interesting case, might I add."

She throws out a small shrug, something less than sympathetic. His team shuffles out the door and he follows after them. Her feet scrape back and forth on the carpet and she loses focus on the room, sitting somewhere distant inside her mind.

Her pager sounds at her side and she jolts upright, bringing her attention to the noise at her hip. Groaning, she stands and begins to make her way back to her office, wishing she could join him at the craft table just once.


	3. Gluttony

12:24 p.m. –**Gluttony**

She's halfway through her third muffin when he plops down at the table, slamming his tray like a moody adolescent at the lunch period. He tears open a chip bag loudly and stuffs a handful into his mouth, crumbs cascading down onto the table like starchy snowflakes.

Neither of them says anything, each waiting for the other to speak. Her finger hooks around the handle of her tea mug and she watches him as she takes a sip of the warm liquid. It hits the tastes buds in her mouth, depositing specks of citrus and caffeine on her tongue.

After a while, she becomes irritated by the silence. Or the almost silence, save for him chewing noisily across the table from her. The scene is an odd one because the two of them never have lunch together, much less come in this close proximity. He is usually hiding in a bathroom stall reading Playboys or listening to the Rolling Stones in the morgue. As she opens her mouth to question his presence, he cuts her off.

"It's not Marfan's or Elhers," he says between a bite of sandwich.

"You usually don't update me on your cases."

"And you usually don't sit in on my differentials," he sneers.

"Oh, good Lord. Are we back to that again?"

"Don't bring Him in to this. You are the one who had to stick your nose in where it normally doesn't belong. And your ass. And Ben and Jerry."

"Who?"

"Ben," he points to her left breast and then the right. "And Jerry."

"You named my breasts after ice cream?"

"They just look so darn delicious."

Gritting her teeth, she tries to let the comment slip by. The plaster of the mug would probably give way to the pressure of her palms pressing into it if she kept up her current grip, but she eases up and tries to let the wave of emotion pass over her and cloud.

"Could be hydrocephalus," she tries, desperate to change the awkward subject.

"Water on the brain. Right. Only the guy hasn't been convulsing and shows no signs of mental retardation."

"Could be a consequence of a CNS infection, meningitis, or head trauma. The latter could be causing the headaches."

"No signs of infection, no report of meningitis," he dismisses, looking around. "As for the headaches, I am beginning to wonder if 'Lisa Cuddy' would be an acceptable excuse for trauma to the brain. I feel a pain coming on."

"What is it you always say?" she asks, swirling the tea in her mug. "Everybody lies?"

He tips his chip bag up and leans his head back, sprinkling the remnants into his mouth. After, he stands and grabs his tray from in front of him.

"This was fun. Let's not do it again though," he says sarcastically.

He reaches into his pocket and lets the scrap of paper in his hand float down to her and land on the table. She glances at the print and then brings her vision back up to him, only he is halfway across the room. He tosses the whole tray in the trash and throws a devious smile back to her.

After she finishes her drink, she walks over to Charlene, the cafeteria worker, and hands her the paper.

"Put it on my tab," she says with a shake of her head.


	4. Wrath

2:07 p.m. -**Wrath**

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" she yells as she walks into her office, throwing her door a little too hard behind her. She doesn't even turn around to see if it smacks him in the face. Her lab coat misses the hanger and piles on a heap in the floor.

"Saving my patient last I checked," he answers in a hateful tone.

"You are to approve everything through me. That includes scheduling the OR for procedures. I get a call that says you've booked the room in a little under an hour to dig in the guy's spinal column."

"He needs surgery."

"Based on what? Where are your MRI scans?"

"Each time the MRI is used, that costs the hospital 10 grand. I am just trying to cut costs and save a life at the same time," he shoots back and then scuffs his shoe against the carpet of her office.

"Syringomyelia. Explains the uncontrolled emotions and sleep deprivation. I need the surgery to find the cyst."

"Can the bullshit, House. This is about you thinking you're right and playing a hunch. That isn't how this hospital works. You need proof before you run off and do a high risk surgery."

"You can the bullshit, Cuddy. I've been watching this guy squirm in agony for the past five hours while you have been shoveling down muffins and playing I-Spy in my office. Do what you are good at, administrating. And I'll do what I am good at, being a doctor."

Walking over to stand in front of him, she brings her body so close to his that she can feel his body heat wafting over to her. Or maybe it is his anger. She isn't sure either way but she wants him to understand that she isn't sitting in on this gamble.

"Do the damn MRI to make sure he has a legitimate cause to warrant surgery. Then, and only then, can you scrub up and play Operation," she says in a low, but harsh voice.

She wonders if she resembles one of the cartoons on Saturday mornings where coyotes have steam coming out of their ears. Her fingers curl into tiny fists and brush against the fabric of her skirt.

"Just so you know, I'll attend your lynching from the Board when this guy gets shipped to his family in a nice pine box," he frowns, then sticks out his tongue.

He speeds out of the door, despite his handicap. Plopping back into her chair, she sticks her muscular legs up on the edge of the mahogany, idly wondering how long it will take her to get back to Earth due to the TNT he has lit under her.


	5. Pride

A/N: This was originally a one shot but I am breaking it up into the seven different sins as chapters. That is why this one will be quite short, as will a few of the remaining ones.

-

3:31 p.m. –**Pride**

The nurse that knocks on her door is new and shy, entering reluctantly despite the permission to enter. Her hands fidget with a large manila envelope and she stands for a few moments without speaking.

"Can I help you Nurse Blake?"

"Dr. House asked me to send this to you from Radiology. It's Dale Winterman's scans," she announces, extending the folder out shakily.

She's out of her seat and un-sticking the adhesive before the nurse can say any more. The films contain the patients name over the top and she lets out an irritated groan when she makes a circle with her steps, wanting a light source to look at the scans.

The sun burns hot in the afternoon sky and she yanks her blinds back and holds the transparency to the solar rays. Everything tells a story, she thinks. She waits and does not move, hoping the pictures are truly capable of a thousand words. As if on cue, the answer presents itself.

"Damn," she breathes, running her fingers along the shadow of the patient's skull. "The downward herniation of the cerebellar tonsils has a displacement of greater than 5mm."

"He's in the OR. Just in case you wanted to know," the nurse tells her.

"Thanks."

The young woman lets herself out, closing the door with only the slightest of noises.

In the distance, or perhaps just right outside the window, the locusts hum loudly in the branches of the trees. The light spills across her desk, casting shadows from the cup holders and picture frames. She spins around and glances into the courtyard out her window, at the bodies flowing slowly to and fro.

As she snaps a rubber band against her wrist, she realizes she doesn't have to admit to him anymore that he is right. He already knows.


	6. Sloth

10: 01 p.m. -**Sloth**

"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania," House hums as she enters the operating room. His long legs stick out a good distance into the crowded space as he lounges in a plastic chair, head lolled back and staring at the ceiling.

Somehow it feels appropriate with the moon high and the summer burn everywhere about the Earth. The dull coolness of the room does little to offer relief, only serving to prickle the layers of her skin.

"Why are you still here?" she asks, pulling up a seat beside him.

"As someone once pointed out, what's to go home to?"

She feels a pang of guilt but doesn't let it show, instead busying herself by crossing her legs and leaning her chair against gravity so that its back grazes the wall. The metal legs of the seat feel cool under her fingers as she moves them up and down its length. His eyes are on her, she knows, but she keeps her vision on the messy room.

"So, what was it?" she asks as if feigning interest and ignorance.

"Chiari Malformation," he replies. "But you already knew that."

"What makes you think I did?"

A thin smile pulls at the corners of his lips and she takes a moment to see the edges of his eyes wrinkle in amusement. Suddenly, he isn't the cranky twenty year old memory, instead morphing into the playful college kid she once knew. The years are older than both of them but she feels the strain of time pull her away, back to the present where memories are dangerous to be stepping into and trying on again.

"You've been on a roll lately. Of knowing things prematurely," he tells her, throwing a glance over her direction as he tries to mimic her earlier actions. She wonders how he will complete the feat but then remembers he has become accustomed to the art of balance, something she finds herself struggling with all the time.

"Whatever," she grumbles with a shake of her head.

"You weren't right."

"Well technically, neither were you."

"He needed surgery, something he would have received sooner if you had just let me do what needed to be done."

"Ah, yes. I was thinking of implementing this 'fly by the seat of my pants' method for the whole hospital."

Edging closer to her, their shoulders touch and he doesn't even flinch at the contact with her, instead touching the skin of his biceps and triceps into the soft curves of her own arm. The weight of his shoulder presses into hers and she feels his cheek wisp against the flesh of her ear.

Her breath hitches and she isn't sure she is breathing until he touches her along her collarbone where her low cut top has failed to cover her and she lets out small puffs of carbon dioxide. It feels like a dream to have him moving his hands along her in this uncharacteristic and intimate gesture. The foreignness of the moment expands and bends and she isn't sure why any of this is happening. He stops at the nape of her neck and their eyes meet in a duel of blue.

"What are you doing?" she whispers.

"Getting what I want," he answers as if it is nothing, that it is simple and lacks complexity.

"You're bluffing, trying to get a rise out of me."

"There is a dirty joke in there I will leave alone."

"Since when has anything ever stopped you?"

"Are you saying you aren't trying to stop me?"

"I don't know what I'm saying," she admits with a purse of her lips.

And when her body relaxes against his, she silently curses her appendages for their betrayal.


	7. Lust

11: 00 p.m. –**Lust**

Somewhere between his fingers splayed along the naked expanse of her clavicle and the violently loud tick of the clock over the medical bay, she'd come to rest herself on top of him in that goddamn ridiculous plastic chair he had pegged against the wall.

She feels wanton and scandalous, like a terrible hospital administrator and a complete success as a woman as she feels her skirt ride up high on her thighs, his hand raking along the tanned skin at the back of her calves. Under her, it is nothing but heat and desire and the physical embodiment of pent up anger and aggression.

The fluorescent lights overhead hum and so does her body as his hands brush aside the fabric of her blouse and his fingers come to rest on the bones of her hips. Their hands duel for dominance on the others body and they come within millimeters distance of slamming their lips into one another. But at the last second, one or the other pulls away. Afraid to give in. Afraid to lose.

So much is already lost though between the tiny puffs of breath and biting back of moans. He touches her like college was only yesterday and as if she were exactly the same etching of the human she started out as. Or maybe as exactly the same person he used to be.

His fingers trace the curve of her breast and suddenly it is all semantics, assignment of roles and spaces that they would never fit into. It's too much to call him a love interest because the prospect has been collecting dust for longer than she cares to admit. It's easier to shelve it and take him in these increments. Tonight could be the only night he touches her this way, allows her to rake her fingers down the part of him that aches for release.

She doesn't know who gives first, who throws in the metaphorical towel, but their lips are ghosting across one another at first and then taking in the feel and taste of one another.

It's forbidden, all of this. The doors are open and the night staff is milling about the halls. Everything in the world is buzzing around them, so close, but she blocks it all out.

Fabric is pushed aside, removed, torn, forgotten. Just like so much of their lives. It's seems unrealistic to pine, to play the part of a princess in waiting by admitting she's let herself think of him like this for twenty years. To have been sitting on a ledge during a thunder storm, waiting for lightening to strike twice.

_Let's create another memory_, she thinks.

He slides home to complete encapsulation and her eyes flutter shut with fulfillment. If tonight is a fluke, a chance encounter, maybe she can last the next twenty years with these fading moments at the back of her mind.


End file.
